Bingo's Run Read online

  Pain ripped through me and I woke up. I awoke in a field of orange. “Are you okay, sir?” Charity asked. She looked down at me. My eyes looked away from hers. “Ya, I’z fine,” I said. I was wet with sweat all over. “What you want?” I said. I wanted no one to see me like this. I felt small: an ant.

  The moon and the streetlights outside made her skin look like dough. She pressed her lips together. She seemed sad.

  “Why you sad?” I asked.

  “Sir, I wanted to say goodbye. I heard you are going to America tomorrow.”

  I shrugged. “Ya,” I said. There were no other words.

  For once, Charity had no words, either. She just stood and stared down at me. I wanted her to press against me like when Drink Hut held Wolf. I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to dive under her blanket of softest orange. I wanted to love Charity, but I had no words to tell her what was in my head. “There mus’ be wata leak in here,” I said.

  She tried to smile. “Why is that, sir?”

  I said, “Well, your face got wet.”

  She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “I am sorry. I will miss you, sir.” The street outside was quiet. The moon lit my bed.

  “Come lie with me?” I asked. She did this, and when Charity kissed my mouth a bad day became good. Her kiss opened my lips. I told her everything. As I said it, the truth sounded strange. I did not just tell her about Hunsa, Mrs. Steele, and the contract; about Gihilihili and Nyayo House. I also told her about the running, Wolf, and the shootings. I told her about St. Michael’s and all the boys Father Matthew saves for his retirement account. I told her about Mama, the riot, and how Wolf killed her for being a squeela. I told her about the village and how Senior Father and Senior Mother were killed by the gang boys. I told her about my father stealing Senior Mother’s cook pot.

  Charity listened quietly. “But, after everything, you are still here,” she said when I was done. “You must be made from a special mud!” she said, and kissed my mouth shut.

  I pushed my hand under the mattress and pulled out the folded-up yellow Khefa contract. On the work desk by the window was a black pen with “The Livingstone” printed on the side. As with the Mercedes, the hotel put its name on everything—it must have been afraid of everything getting lipped. Under my name, Bingo Mwolo, I wrote “and Charity,” and handed her the yellow sheet of paper. “Look afta this,” I said. “It is everything I have.” I did not tell Charity that my contract, like me, was nothing but rubbish.

  Chapter 52.

  Siafu the Ant

  What is an ant? Siafu gets up in the morning, carries his dirt and food, and then he does the same the next day and every day until he dies in the mud that he came from. What chance does Siafu have? He has teeth to bite the stamping foot, but what good would it do to take a last bite before he dies? Apart from a bite, his back, and his legs, the ant has nothing. Don’t call me Bingo; call me Siafu the Ant! I carry all day. At the end of every day, I am as empty as I was when I began. I could not even bite the stamping foot. Mrs. Steele stamped: “Little Siafu, give me that contract!” Wolf stamped: “Siafu, you’z my runna!” Peg Leg stamped: “This is paradise for an ant.”

  Mama said, “Bingo, run!” Then she lay still and died. Call me Siafu. I am Ant. I die as I live—nothing with nothing.

  I slept again, but without dreaming. A siren woke me up sharp. Police, I thought. Wolf called Gihilihili, and they have come to take me away. When I had the chance, I should have killed Wolf; I should have killed his Drink Hut. I would be free now. But I did nothing. Senior Father, the broken stick, taught me, “You never kill.” I am Siafu, the frightened ant; I never kill.

  It was not a siren but the phone by the bed. The Thaatima’s voice was slow and controlled. “Mrs. Steele will meet you downstairs at ten. You will need to come down with your bag packed and then we’ll leave. Bingo, that’s just over half an hour from now.” He did not mention breakfast. Now that he had what he wanted, he did not care.

  I drank the last two vodkas from the room fridge, packed my things in the red suitcase, and left the room. The cleaner’s cart was down the corridor. I held my breath—Charity! But it was Brick-Ugly Cleaner. She laughed when she saw me.

  Mrs. Steele was already downstairs when I got there, standing in the lobby. She wore the dress she had on the first time I saw her—bright white with large black spots. Her gold hair was tied back. Around her neck she wore white pearls; on her feet, black hooker shoes. She smiled at me the way she did when she first saw me at the orphanage, as if I was a painting she wasn’t sure she wanted. Anyway, I was on my way to America. Maybe I would get a truck—it was in the contract. She raised her eyebrows. “Come on, Bingo, let’s go and meet your Thomas Hunsa, and then we will head to the airport.”

  I walked out of the Livingstone carrying my red suitcase. The morning air outside the hotel was cooker-hot and filled with construction, street noise, the smells of sweat and diesel. The Mercedes was already there waiting. My head hammered with the city construction. Mr. Edward held the door and Mrs. Steele got into the car. A hotel boy in a red jacket took my suitcase and put it in the car boot. It went on top of Mrs. Steele’s suitcase. It is an old (low-class) trick to lip tourist bags from open car boots like this, so I watched the boy shut the boot. Then I followed Mrs. Steele into the car.

  As I got in, Mr. Edward reached out his hand business style. “Goodbye, Mr. Mwolo.”

  I shook his hand. “Ya, Managa Edward.”

  Mr. Edward went on, “I hope that your stay was excellent, Mr. Mwolo.”

  I looked up at Mr. Edward. “Ya, is good. Ah, one thing,” I said. “Can you’z tell tha night cleana there a spida in tha room.”

  Mr. Edward smiled. “I will be sure to tell Miss Charity that.”

  Mrs. Steele called, “Bingo, we need to go.” I got into the car, but before Mr. Edward shut the door he said, “The freedom fighter Soweto Plato once said from his prison cell,

  A man’s word may speak of bravery, but action shows his valor.

  A prison is a plot of land; it is the love inside that matters.”

  Mr. Edward, the best-dressed man in Nairobi, could speak philosophy forever.

  After the door shut, it was just Mrs. Steele and me and Nairobi’s hammering. “Where your lawyer?” I asked.

  Mrs. Steele said, “Scott has gone to the airport to sign the shipping documents and check us in for the flights. You and I need to finish off the contract—I still need the Master to sign. Then we will package the paintings and join Scott at the airport so that we can fly straight out”—she swallowed and looked away—“to our new life.” On Mrs. Steele’s lap was the thick Thaatima’s contract with my signature and the Thaatima’s signature on it. Mrs. Steele just needed Thomas Hunsa’s. The car was still. She looked at me sharply. “So, where to, Bingo?” she said. “Where is the Master?”

  “Hastings,” I said back to her.

  Mrs. Steele said, “Driver, take us to Hastings.” But Mr. Alex did not move.

  I leaned forward and screamed “Hastings” in his ear. His hat moved just a flicker, and then the car.

  The Mercedes drove away from the hotel and onto Kenyatta Avenue, slower than Slo-George thinking. A brown truck-van came up right behind us with DHL in large letters painted on its side. Below the large letters were the words “Delivering Heavenly Love. Always there when you need it!” Somehow it did not surpise me that the caretaker drove the van, his long white pipe hanging from his bright red lips. He seemed to be in charge of all important deliveries.

  Chapter 53.

  Mrs. Steele Meets the Masta

  The car was stuck in downtown traffic. I looked out the car window. People—yellow, purple, red, green, and orange—walked past. Mrs. Steele coughed, and I looked at her. Her eyes—so dark blue that they were almost not green—did not say, “Sorry, Bingo, I am a hustler; that was Mr. Steele’s fault.” Her eyes did not say, “Sorry, Bingo, this is just business. Like you are a runner, I am a dealer.” Her eyes did not say, “Bing
o, the Master’s art—it is worth millions. I am drunk on chang’aa.” Instead, Mrs. Steele looked at me the way she did when I took the small statue off the curator’s desk. She tapped her bright red nails on the thick contract. “Bingo, isn’t there a quicker way?”

  I screamed at Mr. Alex, “Mr. Alex, Mbagathi Way, ya!” I shouted it three times before his hat moved. It was a quicker and better way, past the dam, along the back of Kibera, behind the pharmaceutical plant, and up to Hastings. Minutes later, the car inched down Mbagathi. The potholed tarmac ended and a red dust road took over. We passed Nairobi Dam. Ahead, I saw Krazi Hari standing on his castle of garbage. He was a dark stick on a mountain of black, a flagpole with a crazy hair flag. The flagpole swatted at flies. Nearer, I saw the children, grown-ups, and dogs scavenging. The old tree was still there, but the tail of the trash had crept closer to it. I saw what looked like a large sack of trash in front of the tree. I stared hard. The sack moved—it moved slowly, but it moved. The giant sack moved again. Closer, I saw that it was human. Slo-George threw rock after rock at Krazi Hari. Rubbish! The retard’s rocks were not even close. “Right!” I shouted at Mr. Alex. “Turn right!” I shouted again, and he turned the car. He drove on, and soon I shouted, “Stop.”

  I looked at my new mother’s cold eyes. “Mrs. Steele,” I said, “wait here. I check where tha Masta is.” Before she could say a word, I ran out of the air-con-cooled car. The heat hit me like a hammer. In the weeks I was gone, I had forgotten the stench. I thought I would be sick.

  “Georgi!” I shouted.

  Slo-George jiggered. I ran to him. His Livingstone bathrobe was now gray. I grabbed him. He was too big to reach all the way round, but I held him tight, my face against the piece of wire that was his belt. His hand held a rock in it. It thumped against my back hard. I was not sure if he meant to hurt me but he did. His face folds tried to hide that he was happy.

  “Throw it,” I said.

  He threw. It didn’t come close. I threw the next one; my shot was better than his, but the garbage mound had grown. My rock was also far off.

  Krazi Hari burst out with his mad laughter. “Ya, Meejit wanka,” he shouted. “Ya fookin’ useless.” He was waving a half-eaten newspaper like a stick. He laughed lunatic style. He screamed, “Ya dumb sheet fren’, a half-brained idiot.” Nothing had changed. Nothing ever changes, except that the mound of garbage gets bigger. “You pair so fookin’ useless ya can neva hit a fookin’ bus. Why don’ ya go an’ wank off ya. At leas’ tha’ way ya neva miss!” He laughed out loud again and started to jump up and down like the lunatic he was.

  “Fook it,” I said.

  I picked four rocks up off the ground and started to walk up the garbage mound. Georgi watched. “Get some rocks,” I said to him. “Let’s hit tha wanka.”

  The stink was terrible. I marched fast, and Slo-George followed slowly. The scavengers carried on; work is work.

  There was a slam behind me. I looked round. Mrs. Steele had gotten out of the car. She shouted, “Bingo, wait!”

  Fook ha, I thought. Mrs. Steele ran toward the mound. “Bingo, wait,” she shouted again. At first I continued walking. She yelled again, “Bingo, I said wait,” and I stopped. Her voice could stop a dog from shitting. Mrs. Steele walked up the mound toward me. She had on her hooker shoes and gripped the contract in her hand. Even Krazi Hari stopped his craziness and watched her.

  Mrs. Steele’s hooker shoes slowed her. Her feet sank into the black muck, but she was still faster than Slo-George and passed him. She lost a shoe in the filth. “Fuck!” she said. She took off the other shoe and threw it. Three scavengers looked up and dashed toward it. Mrs. Steele got closer to me. She breathed hard. I felt sick from the smell—I was amazed that she could bear it. Her contract was already smeared with filth. Her face was sweaty; her voice was loud. “So that’s the Master?”

  My eyes followed hers. She was looking at the lunatic.

  Vapors took over my head. I retched, then retched again. I sat down. I could not breathe. I did not say “Yes,” I did not say “No.” But I admit it: I nodded.

  Before I could speak, Mrs. Steele said, “Bingo, you wait here. No way am I going to let you play me. I know exactly what you are capable of.” I guessed that the vapors had gotten to her head, too. The white skin of her feet was black from filth. The white of her dress was smudged with dirt, so that some of the black dots joined up.

  I called out, “Mrs. Steele, wait.” I had no idea what the lunatic might do. But she did not listen to me. She went on, and with each step her feet sank up to her ankles in filth. “Wait,” I shouted. She and her contract did not stop. “Wait for me,” I said. But she carried on. Who was I to stop her?

  Slo-George reached me and looked down. His eyes closed together. He grunted.

  “I’z fine,” I said.

  Mrs. Steele was close to the lunatic. Against the giant sun behind him, Krazi Hari’s shape started to swirl. I said to Slo-George, “We have to get her.” Slo-George helped me stand and we followed Mrs. Steele up the hill. But we were slow. I leaned against Slo-George as I walked. Mrs. Steele was almost there; none of this was my fault.

  I had never been this close to Krazi Hari. He looked like a long pencil; his feet were rooted in garbage, his head thrust toward heaven. His hair was mad, as if it was trying to escape him. He had four teeth. His shredded clothes were black, but he glowed in the sun. Flies buzzed around his head. From time to time, he swished his rolled-up newspaper at them.

  Mrs. Steele made it to the top of the hill. She reached her hand toward Krazi Hari. The top of her head did not reach his shoulders. “Master, it is a pleasure to meet you,” she said. “I am Colette Steele.”

  Her hand hung in the air. Krazi Hari placed the rolled-up newspaper into it.

  “Thank you,” she said, as if this was a normal, everyday event. She handed him the contract. He took it, rolled it up, and swished it. Just like normal.

  Each breath was painful for me. I sat down on a smashed-up wooden box and watched—I figured this would be better than TV. Slo-George sat beside me. He put his hand on my shoulder. It still had a rock in it—it hurt, but I did not say a thing. The sun beat on my head as if to say, “Bad friend.”

  I looked up at Krazi Hari and the hustler art dealer. The show was about to start. They looked good, the two of them. Krazi Hari dropped the rolled-up contract onto the mound of garbage. It landed on a large piece of blue plastic as if it was his desk. He lifted his right arm into the air and opened his hand. At least a dozen flies landed on his palm. He then closed his fist, lowered his hand, and made a hissing noise. He threw his hand at Mrs. Steele. The flies bounced on the blue. The heat and the smell made my head steam, and my thinking became shadows of shapes. I was not sure if Krazi Hari spoke or if all the sounds of Kibera became his voice. His words were slow:

  Hin, Hin, Hin,

  Moshouray; Sintah, Hin.

  The lunatic roared over the din that came from the other side of the East Wall of the Kibera slum.

  Woman! My days are spent upon a mound of black and rotten garbage with children picking at the edges. They and the rats scavenge all that surrounds me. They take whatever they can. Do not fret, though, because nothing of you is lost; nothing is forgotten. I have written it all down. The scraps of your life lie around me. I pick up one before the next. No, not in the order you see them but in the order that they are. I throw them into the air; they fall. I pick them up again. It is still you—a different order, but still you.

  Woman! I have seen all that there is. I stare across the field in front of me into time. In the field, I see all that is known, for it contains all knowledge. To my right there is the old tree—always there. The leaves erupt and fall. The tree, though, stands for eternity. The tree sees everything. She sees that knowledge, like sunlight, is fleeting. Knowledge has no beginning, no end, or middle. It just casts a daylong shadow before it disappears.

  Hin, Hin, Hin.

  seven cowries

  six hens


  Hin.

  Mrs. Steele stared at the lunatic. She did not move, and neither did the flies, dots on the blue plastic. Even the scavengers stopped to listen. He carried on:

  Hin, Hin, Hin,

  Moshouray; Sintah, Hin.

  Woman! To suggest that your purpose is to gain knowledge makes no sense. No sense at all. For why would your purpose be to know nothing? And so you travel here to understand your purpose. You are just as clueless as when you started, a lifetime back.

  You feel doubt. You feel shame—for what? Come sit beside me. Do not worry about the dirt—you were filth before you got here. Do not let the scurrying rats stop you—they will soon sleep. The smell, you say, disgusts you. You smell cleaner—says who? Feel free to drop your trash upon mine, but be sure that when you arrive at my side you have none left.

  Woman, show me your worth. Do not try to deceive me. Surely you must have something else to show me besides this, your shell.

  Kibera’s noise carried on. But after all the riots, rapes, and guns, Krazi Hari was still here. Who riots on a stinking garbage mound? Surrounded by his scavenging soldiers, flies, and rats, the king of the garbage heap could only die when all the garbage was gone—and that would never happen. He had more to say:

  Woman! No! You do not disappoint me—not at all. I expected so little anyway. Now that you stand upon a mound of garbage, you wonder what you sought for so many years. Yesterday it was laid across the field before you, but today it has gone. Was it that yesterday you were deluded? Or is it that today you are blind?

  Long ago, I gave you a silken thread; let us call it Destiny—a will upon which to walk, yours to cut, bend, fold, or knot. You could have climbed it or hung yourself from it. You could have tied it to another’s string if you wished, or even burned it.